


November at Newton's

by obliviateme



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Book: New Moon, Break Up, Canon Compliant, Co-workers, Depression, Gen, Harassment, Human Bella, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Misogyny, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Retail, Twilight References, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3935329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obliviateme/pseuds/obliviateme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of Bella Swan as she handles customers and coworkers at Newton's, her retail job in New Moon. Feat. an "it gets better" type feel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	November at Newton's

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at work in summer 2014. Let us all converge in one mass of retail woe. I love writing Bella and would be interested in continuing this or something like it. I'm marking it as complete for now, but if you'd like to see more New Moon fics (that's my favorite Twilight series book) just let me know!
> 
> Congrats on taking a shower, Erika! <3 :*

Saturday, November 22 nd

 

\----7:46 a.m.

 

“Got a project? Newton’s has the stuff!”

 

Our advertisement plays over the radio for the first time that morning. And I mean actual radio. It crackles in the front corner of the store, only playing weird country songs and pop music that Renee likes. We don’t even get any old school Taylor Swift. What a waste. Mr. Newton claims it's stuck on that station, but we all know better.

 

 _Nobody needs to be awake this early_ , I think as I dig my thumbs into my eyes and rub. _And certainly nobody needs to be at Newton’s at this time._ I clock in and turn on my heel to leave the break room and make my way back to the registers. There are only two of them, and I’m not really sure why we got landed with 6 and 8. Maybe the rest of the numbers got stolen and some lonely Forks residents will be in soon to try to return them and claim they just didn’t work out.

 

Mike doesn’t even come in until 9:30, so it’s two full hours of just Mr. Newton and me. All he does is hum quietly and look me up and down when he thinks I’m not watching. Joy.

 

I yawn deeply and pull my heavy dark hair into my lavender hair tie. It makes my neck cold, but otherwise my hair falls in my face as I’m typing up coupon info into our archaic 1997 computers. Or it’ll snag on the box fan behind me that’ll rip out a few strands. Honestly, I don’t know how this town functions. Working at Newton’s is like visiting my deaf grandma in Phoenix. Most of the time I’m pretty sure I understand what the customers want, but the second I do something they didn’t specify, they blow up. Being screamed at, having keys thrown in my face and credit cards slammed down in front of me are all just some things that I’ve gotten used to. I forgot what life before retail was. Life before this gaping hole started forming in my chest that, depressingly, retail even manages to take my mind off of for a couple minutes at a time.

 

Just then the wooden door creaks open to allow a middle-aged man with a wide-brimmed hat to shuffle through into Newton’s. He doesn’t look in Mr. Newton’s direction at all, just shoots his dark eyes straight at me.

 

“Damn, lady. You are a walking advertisement!”

 

I raise my eyebrows and bite my lip, nodding at the counter I’m leaning behind. _A pick up line if I ever heard one._ These are the kind of things I still haven’t – and hope I will never – become accustomed to.

 

4 p.m. can’t come fast enough.

 

 

\----8:12 a.m.

 

I check my blue wristwatch twelve times. Each time, it is still 8:12 a.m. I miss my bed. I shut my eyes and let the Springsteen crackling from the corner seep into my undernourished brain cells.

 

 

\----8:33 a.m.

 

I check my wristwatch. Something claws painfully out of the hole in my chest. I wince.

 

 

\----8:51 a.m.

 

I don’t know how I’ve made it to see the light of 8:51 a.m.

 

 

\----9:48 a.m.

 

The only time I’m glad to be at Newton’s is when the weather is so bad that I’d rather brave rude customers. Have my entire body ice cold and soaking wet within a nanosecond, or get yelled at by an old dude who claims it’s my fault that he bought the wrong backpack for his daughter? The choice is a tough one. It just started pouring out, and within two hours we’ve had two people trying to return dripping sneakers. Seriously? And here comes your average Forks dad, clutching a sagging Newton’s bag and squeaking over the floor with his sopping Nikes…

 

“Hey!” he shouts at me, and it’s still too early for loud voices. Or voices in general. I look over the guy’s shoulder at Mike, who is leaning against the counter playing his Game Boy Color. I heave a sigh and look into the man’s eyes.

 

“Hello,” I say, and no matter how many times I try to put some _oomph_ in it, like Mike’s dad recommends, it comes out flat. “Can I… help you?”

 

Average Forks Dad lets out a chuckle and hangs his head. He gestures toward the maroon Newton’s bag curling over my side of Register 6. “Yeah, I need to return these,” he tells me, and I can perfectly make out the ‘ _you moron’_ that follows his demand.

 

“Okay…” I struggle to add more, but nothing comes out. I pry apart the bag’s handles and roll the plastic down to reveal a six can pack of tennis balls with one long slit across the top of the package. “Something wrong with these?” I try to sound cheerful.

 

“Yeah, they’re defective,” he goes on in that monotone demand. “ _Bella_ ,” he adds, and I instinctively reach up to fiddle with my plastic white nametag.

 

“Defective?” I prod, and peek inside the packaging to see if he’s even used any of the tennis balls. They all look brand new.

 

“Yes, sweetie. They ain’t good enough.” His large blue eyes stare me down like I’m mold in his shower.

 

“I – okay,” I say, and try not to laugh at him as I scan the product and count out his cash. These are Wilsons. Nobody complains about Wilsons. He watches my every move, and I wonder, as I do every so often, why I even put up with this job.

 

I force my best polite smile, probably looking like I’m on the edge of vomiting instead, and hand him the $14.99. As soon as he makes his way back to the parking lot that now resembles a river, I march over to the sporting equipment and put the balls back on the shelf they came from.

 

 

\----11:11 a.m.

 

“11:11, make a wish!” Mike announces to the store as an elderly lady passes through his line with neon athletic socks. I’m thinking how the population of Forks is overwhelmingly elderly and wondering what number of City With The Most Elderly People we rank in the country when the lady calls over to me.

 

“You make a wish, sweetheart?” she asks, and her face is alight with happiness. How does anyone keep up that enthusiasm at that age?

 

“Uh,” I say. “Yeah, totally. Thanks.” _I wish… I wish he was thinking about me, too._ I grin at her, and then fix my gaze back on the counter under my fists.

 

We’re pretty slow today. No one wants to walk in the rain to buy sports stuff. Well, no, the assholes always will, and that’s the problem.

 

“What’d you wish for, Bella?” Mike asks, a tentative grin on his face as the lady pops open her umbrella and makes her way into the parking lot where it’s still pouring.

 

“That I can pull off a good lasagna for Charlie tonight,” I tell him quickly.

 

He lets out a bark of laughter and leans against his register, watching me. I tug on the collar of my maroon Newton’s shirt and shoot a half-assed grin toward the gum display by his pinpad.

 

“Yeah? That sounds good.”

 

I nod.

 

“Well, don’t you wanna know what I wished for?” his voice cuts through me.

 

“Yeah…” I say, completely unconcerned with sounding convincing.

 

I watch Mike’s dad on his store phone several yards away as Mike says, “I wished I could get this awesome girl to go out with me.”

           

“Really.”

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Like, prom is coming up, and –”

 

I snort. “Mike, prom is seven months away.”

 

His brows knit together and he holds up a hand. “Like I said, prom is coming up and I need to ask her. But I feel dumb about it.”

 

“Maybe you should,” I tell him. “Jessica isn’t taking you back.”

           

He stares at me like I’m a bug. Well, a really fascinating bug. Actually, I have no idea how he’s looking at me and I couldn’t care less. What I do care about is this cropped chunk of hair that’s been dangling in front of my face all day. I might be blessed enough to remember one single hair tie, but remembering to stick some bobby pins on my lanyard is out of the question for my tired mind.

 

Just then Mike’s dad marches up holding his store phone out at his side.

 

“Mike, I need you in the back.”

 

Mike narrows his eyes at me before he walks away. I scuff my rubber boot along the bottom of the counter and sigh. Men are worthless.

 

 

\----11:44 a.m.

 

After Mike sits back and watches me struggle through a couple asking me to do a phone sale (those things make me want to set the place on fire), he strolls over to my register and leans forward on my register. I recoil a little from the stench of his Axe.

 

“Nice timing, Mike,” I mumble. “You know I hate phone sales.”  


“Aw, I’m sorry,” he says, and I look up to see that he nearly genuinely looks it. I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Anyway, will you go to prom with me?”

 

My face must resemble a normal-scale taken aback look, but inside I feel like _The Scream_. Jesus…

 

I look over to the far wall, trying to scheme a quick way out of here (Charlie zooming over in his cop car is the only option I can think of) and turn back to face him. “Mike, come on.”

 

“What? It’s about time. Last year you were with that –”

 

“You think this storm is gonna stop? It’s been going for hours,” I say emphatically, gesturing at the rain-slicked front doors.

 

“Bella,” he repeats. He jerks back as a customer marches up to Register 6.

 

“Hey, you got any brown shoelaces? I found the section, but I’m not seeing the advertised brand,” the guy says.

 

Mike spares me a glance. He turns and leads the way to the shoelaces. “Sure, let me see if I can help you, sir.”

 

I roll my eyes and tap my fingers on the thick plastic sheet covering the Newton’s ads on the counter. The sheet boasts layers of filth and grime and it’s chipped at the edges – the long scar on the underside of my forearm is proof of that. “How Long Has This Been Going On” plays over the radio and I involuntarily tap my foot along despite the fact that it’s the fifth time in four hours I’ve heard the song, and also I hate it. Edward would laugh at me if he knew I was in any way enjoying a stupid song like that. My stomach clenches at the thought. I curl my left hand around to examine my fingernails. Flecks of the gold polish Alice painted on for my birthday party are still clinging on. Like me. Like I hate to say. It’s been two months, and I still have trouble speaking when someone addresses me.

 

Maybe I’ll scrub it off when I get home, before I make dinner. Not that Charlie even noticed when the gold polish appeared. Gold makes me feel weird, anyway. Like an old lady. As if I need more of that.

 

 

\----12:35 p.m.

 

I look around the store, almost yearning for customers. My stomach growls. I regret my six-hour shift that means I don’t even get a lunch. Just another half hour tacked onto my schedule and Mr. Newton would’ve granted me access to the peanut butter and jelly I packed mechanically this morning, trapped in locker 53. Instead I sip from my water bottle, but that only makes me colder, so I reach under the counter and pull out the big green sweater Charlie bought me last week.

 

I’m rubbing my hands on my sleeves as a muscular, tattooed guy in a Washington State hoodie strolls into the store with his toddler, marching up to Register 6.

 

“Hey,” he says. “Wow, _that’s_ a sweater.”

 

I don’t get it. I look down and pluck at the green knit fabric, then look back up at him. “Uh… thanks?”

 

He laughs and rubs at his elbow sporting a spider web tattoo. “Just saying, you could show off your curves a bit more, huh?”

 

I stare. Wait, did I hear that right? I look down at the blonde little kid with him and feel the bile rise in my throat. I decide to speak before it can make its way up. “Can I help you?”

 

“Yeah, hockey stuff,” he says simply.

 

“Aisle… 34,” I tell him, hoping that’s the right one and shrugging. I stare after him, my brows knitting closer and closer my eyes as I wonder what kind of person talks to strangers like that. Disgusting. I scowl until the lines digging into my face make me realize I probably look like I’m imitating Edward. Sure enough, I look up to see Mike watching me and gripping Register 8’s countertop.

 

“That was disgusting,” he calls over to me. “I was gonna say something, but…”

 

“You didn’t want knocked out?” I supplies, grinning.

 

“Ooh,” he says, blowing on his fingers. “That was low.”

 

I scratch my nose and try as hard as I can to burp, hoping against hope that I’ll look slightly less attractive to him.

 

 

\----1:26 p.m.

 

I’m starting to get weary, so I leave the register. I tuck that annoying chunk of hair behind my ear as I crouch over cardboard boxes full of BB bullets. I slice into one with an Xacto knife and relish in the _zip_ sound the blade makes as it glides effortlessly through the masking tape. 1 to 2 p.m. was our consistent dead period, so I hadn’t told Mike or Mr. Newton where I was going, just headed off to the back room to get things to stock like the good employee I am. The good employee who’s trying not to focus on anything but perfectly arranging BB bullets because if she doesn’t she might burst into tears.

 

As I make to stand up so I can more comfortably reach the higher shelves of BB stuff, the toe of my boot clips the edge of the box and I stumble backwards into the hunting gear shelf. My first reaction is to look around to make sure no one saw, but of course, a shrill laughter echoes from around the corner and I look up in time to see a blonde teenager covering her mouth and staring at me openly. I stare at her stonily, hoping to take advantage of the “Depressed Poker Face” Mike is always saying I rock. It doesn’t take long for the girl to dart in the opposite direction, and I smirk, going back to sorting bullets by size. Being clumsy is a lot different when there’s no one around to tell you they love you anyway.

 

_Shut up. Shut the hell up._

Someday I’ll stop being a wreck. But not today, apparently.

 

 

\----2:33 p.m.

 

I lean against the counter, popping my gum loudly to see how far I can make Mike’s nose wrinkle up his face. It stops raining just the doors open to let a new customer in.

 

“Bella!” someone says, and I look over to see Angela Weber waving enthusiastically. A small smile stretches her lips, and I have no doubt she’s trying to gauge what type of mood I’m in. It’s no secret people have been walking on eggshells around me at school for what seems like ages now. No one wants to talk to the loser ex girlfriend. The dumpee. The loner. The pale depressed child who sits at lunch staring at her celery, hoping it’ll give her a way out.

 

I smile back – or try to – and wave.

 

“Hey,” I call.

 

“How’s your day going?” she asks. She turns to watch Mike as he clears his throat and leaves his register unannounced. Or maybe the throat clearing was the announcement.

 

“It’s… alright,” I tell her, crossing my arms.

 

She drops her voice as she steps closer to my counter. “Is he fun to work with?”

 

I don’t know what it is, but something in the low, monotone way she asks it cracks me up. I push my overgrown fringe out of my face as I laugh, making Mike swivel his head around from where he’s talking to his dad several yards away.

 

“Totally,” I say. “So fun.”

 

Angela smirks. “I’m here for a bugkiller. Be right back.”

 

I nod and watch her walk away, feeling a weight lift in my chest. Or maybe it just shifts a little. Either way, I’m glad to see her.

 

When I scan the bugkiller for her, I clear my throat to prep a coherent string of words. “He actually tried asking me to prom.”

 

Angela snorts as she reaches for her wallet. “Are you kidding me? Why can’t he get it through his head that you need to be left alone?”

 

It’s quiet except for the ABBA sputtering from the radio. I wasn’t expecting her to be so blunt about it.

 

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “It’s like… He’s just so entitled, ever since I got here, he just –”

 

“Thinks he can do whatever he wants,” Angela says, nodding. “What a pig.”

 

I hand her her change. “I tried burping, like, ten times today to make him hate me.”

 

Angela giggles. “Honestly, Bella, there’s nothing you could do to make him hate you.”

 

“Nothing?” I ask, just to be sure.

 

“Nothing,” Angela insists. “I mean, there’s nothing you could do to make him like you more, either… Except maybe if you came to work dressed head to toe like him one day.”

 

I clap my hand to my mouth to hold back a laughing fit.

 

“Man, that’d get him for sure.”

 

I look up to see Mr. Newton hovering by Register 8, looking at us wearily. I clear my throat. “Uh, but, yeah he’s a great guy.”

 

Angela raises an eyebrow, lets out a tiny laugh, and then follows my gaze to Mr. Newton. She gets it.

 

“Oh, yeah!” Angela says, nodding vigorously. “Great guy. Mike is awesome. Just wonderful. Haha, well, uh, too bad I can’t stay long enough to say hi to him. See you Bella!” She winks as she flounces out the door.

 

I hang my head. My stupid smile feels glued to my face.

 

“See you.”

 

 

\----4:00 p.m.

 

I pull my coat on, closing my eyes against the blinding lights of the break room. He’s never been here, I tell myself. As crappy as work gets, it’s somewhere he has never set foot. And never will. I will never see him in the tool aisle, browsing the tennis gear, or asking where to find the best shoelaces for his Land's Ends. He will never invite me to his house again, never tease me about my retail job in front of his family, never ask me how work went. Because he’s not coming back. I have to do this on my own. Live and sell shoelaces and return tennis balls and cook for Charlie and let out laughs that die in my throat. And act like he doesn't exist. It’s mechanical, all of it, but it’s still me behind the actions. And maybe one day it’ll feel like it. Just not today.

 

I march out. At last. Finally. Thank god. It’s time to get out of here.

 

Time to go fix some motorcycles.


End file.
